


Double Helix

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [37]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Body Worship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5386733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The universe is at his fingertips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Helix

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: Clara/Twelve, dom!Clara, body worship, the Doctor calling her miss. (I mean, I didn't do most of that, but that was the request.)

2,000 years, the Doctor’s seen some things. Stars being born, galaxies drifting. Masterpieces as they’re made, Michelangelo sanding the rough edges of his Pieta. He’s redefined his concept of beauty over and over, as he himself is reborn, as each iteration of himself finds something more amazing, more hearts-wrenching than the last thing to stop him in his tracks.

The universe at his fingertips. Time itself as it spirals around him. All the strangeness, the complexity, the cold glory. He’s seen things would have you on your knees praying, praying to whatever god you imagine capable of them. Terrible, awe-inspiring, impossible things. He’s been around.

But there’s something to be said for the familiarity of a lover’s body. He’s known this, has had this before. Other versions of himself, other lovers. The small marvels of ears, kneecaps, wrists. The miracle of flesh and bone, the unlikeliness that a person can even exist, let alone exist this specifically, let alone let him be there with them.

Learning the curves and contours of a lover’s body ‘til you know it better than your own. He’s done this before, will do it again. But this moment, these moments, they exist to this particular him alone. Clara Oswald, lying slack and indulgent, the artificial twilight of his ship highlighting every detail. She’s allowing this, or enjoying this, or at least saying nothing as he maps her, commits her to memory.

The scar on her left calf she got falling off a bicycle when she was 10. The soft, pale hairs on her cheeks. Inner thighs, clavicle, the arch of her feet. Toes, toenails. Callouses on her hands that had not been there when he’d met her. The hollow beneath her jaw. The sweat-salt taste of her skin. Elbow wrinkles, tiny silvery-pink stretch marks on her hips. The swell of her breasts, how her areolae stiffen under his tongue. How small she is, how unwieldy he feels next to her. The span of his hand crossing her belly, thumb to pinkie and her blood running hot below.

The very quiet noises she makes. The way her hands curl into his hair, the pull on his scalp. How he will go where she takes him, how he folds before her. How he will always, always fold. How they fit together, the angle he knows will unravel her, the spot on her temples that, if he presses his lips there just so, will open up so much of her, the mental ocean of her, pulse to pulse and their minds tangling. How that feels, the Clara-ness of Clara, as his mouth parts against her skin. How so much of her will always, always be with him.

He’ll forget the exact details of her, one day. She’ll fade from him. She will not be replaced, but there will be others. Other lovers to learn the quirks of, the scars of. That day will come and it will come too soon, because it always does. But until then. Until then, he smiles against the crook of her neck, traces the dips between ribs, finds all the places they align or don’t, and he holds them inside himself, he will carry them with him until he can’t afford to anymore.

The universe at his fingertips. He’s seen things, oh, the stories he could tell. But there’s no better story than this. Than her. The narrative that she is, spiraling around him.


End file.
